Author: Grant Muller

Ruby you’re great. No really, I love your terse syntax, iterating is easy, and the community that supports you is quite large. But, I think we need to take a break.

Wait, don’t cry. Let me explain.

It’s just that I’m tired of having to remember so many syntaxes, especially one so different than the others I work with. I have to use C# or Java for my enterprisey stuff, then switch to Javascript for client-side, then switch to whatever templating engine I’m using. It gets…confusing. I caught myself writing a for loop in a file that ended with rb. Seriously.

What’s that? How will I write server-side scripts?

Well, I’ve thought about it and I think Node.js and I are going to start a relationship. Don’t be like that, Ruby. Try to understand. Node is supported on all the platforms I use. I can write scripts in javascript. It’s familiar.

Node and I had our first date last night. I was looking at a Project Euler problem and after working out something that made sense on paper, I glanced over at node and said “Let’s do it”.

We started going at it. Things were looking great at the start but then the night got rocky. My solution on paper just wasn’t working out in code. I wrote and rewrote but just couldn’t make anything work with Node. To be fair Star Trek was playing in the background and my wife was working on her latest project in the same room. The way Spock says “sensors” and the grinding sound of eggshells on sandpaper didn’t really set the mood for solving any problems.

I smiled at node. “I’ll, uh, call you in the morning,” I said, and went to bed.

The next morning I took a long walk with my dogs and thought about what had transpired the night before. Within minutes I had the solution worked out in my head, and I realized it wasn’t node’s fault the night went sour, it was mine. I just needed to sleep on it.

I rushed back to the house, cracked open emacs and tried again with node. It was instant harmony. Here is the brute force solution to problem #3 on Project Euler:

So you see, you’ve been a fun fling Ruby, and we may get together again someday. You know how fickle I am with programming languages. Let’s just take some time off and see where it goes. Node and I may have something here.

"Fraaaaaaancoooooo, Ingles" The woman behind the counter at the Hostal Abalorio cooed. A man rustled a little on the couch in the lobby under a heap of blankets. She called Franco’s name a few more times until he rose from the couch. Half asleep, Franco hobbled towards us. Struggling to do two things at once in his stupor, his put the small round glasses on his face and asked if we spoke German before resorting to English.

"Sorry, I’ve been up all night, I’m normally not a lazy boy. We’ve been very busy with the Carnival.” Franco apologized.

We noticed.

Six hours before arriving at the Hostal Abalorio Cary and I had hopped on yet another exciting bus ride to the unfortunately named Banos. Nestled in the valley’s of the Andes, Banos is named for you guessed it, baths. Hot springs are plentiful in the area and at least four bath houses have been built to take advantage of the natural wonder. Additionally, a small city has grown up in the area to accommodate the incoming tourists.

We had announced to several people that we’d be heading to Banos at some point in this trip. Responses had varied.

"Banos? Ah, well you’re young, you’ll like it"

or

"Really? Well, you should do the bike ride"

I got the distinct impression that Banos wasn’t exactly a place that locals expected Gringos to go.

Our bus ride was once again fraught with excitement. First, after confirming with a bus attendant that we were on the right bus, we found out that we were on the wrong bus. As it was taking off towards another city. The attendant who previously assured us that we were on the right bus was kind enough to almost stop the bus before kicking us off so that we could board the correct one.

A few minutes and lessons later we discovered the correct bus and settled in for the three hour trip. Some notes about buses in Ecuador:

They are never full. There’s always room for one more.

There is no reason to bring food, someone will sell it to you later.

There will be one passenger who vomits on every trip. Guaranteed.

All of the above occurred on every single bus trip we took. We seemed to go out of our way to pick up additional passengers, especially the food vendors. If someone vomited, it was not out of the ordinary for another passenger entering the bus later to throw a few newspapers down and take a seat on top of it. Unique to the ride to Banos however was the sheer length of time if took to get there. Banos was a mere three hour ride on a good day. We happened to be arriving towards the tail end of Carnival, and if traffic was any indicator, all of Ecuador had descended into the little valley for the party. Our ride dragged from three hours to six, and if you recall bus rule number 1, our bus was packed full of Carnival-goers. It was easily the most miserable commute I’ve ever made.

Which is why I wasn’t particularly in the mood to make conversation with Franco, the English speaking proprietor of Hostal Abalorio. Frank Fix, known locally as "Franco El Blanco", was a pharmacist in his home country of Germany before becoming part owner of the little hostel in Banos. He spends his winters operating the hostel to avoid the German cold, translating for the rest of the staff when necessary. We helped Frank flex his English for a few minutes, dumped our backpacks in the hostel and set out for the city to stretch our legs.

There is a little place in Georgia called Helen. It is affectionately known as ‘Alpine Helen’. Every year in September Helen hosts its own little Oktoberfest. At the height of the celebrations traffic into Helen comes to a complete standstill, and the streets become so clogged with stein-swinging Georgians that even walking around without getting beer-soaked is impossible.

Banos is to Ecuador as Helen is to Georgia.

It was clear that this was the tourist getaway for the natives of Ecuador. The streets were jam-packed with Carnival goers. Where Helen has fudge Banos has taffy-pullers, who stretch lengths of melted sugar sometimes eight to ten feet in length from the street to their shop, pulling the candy just millimeters before it touched the sidewalk.

Cary and I stopped at a street-side bar to take it all in, and realized that it was getting awfully crowded on our particular street. Eventually a live band started up and the street was alive with dancing and drinking. I wandered into a bar to see if we could get a balcony seat, only to be chased out by a teenager wearing a huge pair of earphones around his neck. He tried to tell me they were about to film a promotion inside, and to come back in ten minutes.

It was getting late so Cary and I headed back to the hostel instead. Frank had mentioned that he would like to take a trip to the baths in the morning before it got too crowded, and asked if we’d like to to join him. At 4:30 am. We actually agreed to this, and I still don’t know why. We had a full day of soaking, canyoning and cycling in store for us, it was time to crash.

I tried to make the words sound as assuring as possible, but I was beginning to have doubts of my own as another bus roared by without even looking at my outstretched arm. Everyone from Luis to Esteban to our guide at Cotopaxi had assured us that getting a bus back to Quito from Cotopaxi would be "no problema". As more than a dozen passed I began to wonder if I was translating that phrase incorrectly.

Another bus rolled past in the darkness I began to wonder how far Latacunga was, and how safe it would be to walk down the Pan-American towards it. I had seen plenty of locals doing it, but none since the sun had set, and there weren’t any street lights to guide the way. I started sticking my thumb out to any passing vehicle who might be willing to take a few gringos back to Quito.

I was hitchhiking on the Pan-American highway in the dark. A few hours earlier I had been on top of the world. A lot can change in a few hours. I zoned out and thought back to the hike earlier.

Before coming to Cotopaxi I had never been higher than 3000m, and that was a few days ago when I arrived in Quito. So far, the altitude had only a mild effect on me. Some fatigue climbing hills, but nothing more. The hike to the refuge in Cotopaxi starts higher than 3000m, and after a few steps Cary and I both knew it was going to be a tough climb. The snow, driven horizontally by the heavy wind, pummeled our faces as we ascended further into the clouds.

We began our climb to the top of Cotopaxi slowly and methodically. Fernando, our guide, was taking a group all the way to the top of the volcano later that night. He trudged slowly in front of us wearing a pair of heavy, reticulated boots. I said a silent prayer to my New Balance Minimus’ that they keep my feet warm, and assumed Cary was doing the same. I would have asked her, but conversation wasted oxygen. Little was said during the climb.

To the left and right of the path a black and orange a layer cake of obsidian and lava rock litter the mountainside and the cliffs. Where the stones aren’t packed into dense layers they are strewn haphazardly on the steep hillside, deposited either by the volcano’s explosion or the movement of ice. I found myself thinking about the effects of pressure and heat on rocks and wood. I thought about how charcoal is made, burning wood in a low oxygen environment. I imagined my muscles shrinking into little square Kingston briquettes as I climbed. I thought about breaking into a run, just to see what would happen.

With every switchback I expected to look up and see the refuge. The clouds had surrounded us now and visibility was too low to see more than a dozen feet. We kept our heads down and took it one step at a time. Finally, we looked up and saw the yellow tin roof of the refuge. We may have sped up a little then. We were promised hot chocolate at the top, which might have helped. A fox was wandering around the refuge; perhaps he had been promised chocolate as well.

We walked around unsteadily at the refuge, taking a few pictures and looking up into the clouds. We wandered in to the log cabin atmosphere. A stew was simmering on the stove and the scent pervaded the little wooden hut. We took a seat at one of the tables and Fernando disappeared into one of the little back rooms, looking for cocoa and something to eat. He came back with three steaming glasses and some kind of croissant stuffed with cheese. We gladly accepted and made what conversation we could with our broken Spanish. Fernando had summited Cotopaxi many hundreds of times it seemed; for him, this was just another day at work.

The promise of hot chocolate kept, we stepped out of the refuge to find the clouds had parted, revealing the summit of Cotopaxi for the first time all day. Cary quickly snapped as many photos of the summit as she could, while Fernando cried "Cotopaxi loves you!". It was a satisfying moment. We took the opportunity to leave on a good note, shook hands with Fernando, and stomped heel first down the hill.

At this point Cary and I were feeling confident in our traveling capabilities. The morning had been rough, but we still made it to our destination and were heading back just in time to reach the road before dark. We discussed future travel plans, especially our intent to reach the top of Cotopaxi on a subsequent trip. Perhaps high on the thin oxygen, we made it back to our ride and happily crammed into the Toyota for the rough ride back. I might have even offered to wipe the windshield with the newspaper if the rain and snow hadn’t given way to a steady afternoon sunshine. Everything was looking right with the world.

And then a cab flashed it’s lights in the darkness, and I remembered I was hitchhiking on the Pan-American Highway.

In broken Spanish it became clear that the off-duty cab driver was on his way to meet some friends in Quito, fifty or so kilometers away, and would take us as far as the south bus terminal.

"How much?" I asked.

"Three dollars." Came the reply.

We hopped into the car and the entire way I second-guessed the sum the driver had given me. Three dollars? A beer at a cheap restaurant costs me that much. Surely he meant thirty. Cary and I counted out extra money just in case we had it wrong while the driver bobbed and weave through traffic to Quito. Even if it was thirty, I would gladly pay, and our driver’s skill more than merited it. In the end the fee was exactly three dollars.

"Keep the change", I said as I handed him a five.

It was getting late and we needed to head back to Old Town Quito. We flagged another cab who announced that his fee would be seven dollars. I groaned, wishing that our off-duty driver had been going our way. We thought we might stop and get some dinner, so we asked the cab to take us to The Ronda. In simple Spanish that two road-weary gringos could understand, he told us that the Ronda wasn’t safe tonight, and dragged his thumb across his throat, making a sound you only hear in movies. We raised our eyebrows and told him to take us to Jumbo instead.

When we arrived a steaming hot plate of empanadas was on the table, courtesy of Luis’ wife Maria. We gladly accepted the cheese and onion filled pastry with a coffee and chatted with Luis and Esteban. They were discussing the particulars of the farm and how to organize the cabins for the best exposure. Not wanting to interrupt we excused ourselves and stepped out to find some dinner.

We didn’t realize how hard this would be. In a country that is 90% Catholic literally nothing is open on a Sunday night. After an hour of walking the empty city streets we found exactly one restaurant open. And it was in a hotel. We stepped into the [Plaza Grande] and asked for a table for two, hoping for little more than a few beers to cap what was becoming one of the most ridiculous days we’d ever had. We sat down and ordered a few cold ones.

Suddenly the lights went out. I thought perhaps the Hotel had lost power but when I looked out into the illuminated lobby I knew that something was afoot. A funeral dirge began to play over the speakers.

"Oh god, now the KKK have arrived" Cary announced.

A man dressed in a pointed purple hood and long robes ambled out of the kitchen. The Grand High Wizard of the hotel delivered two bowls of ice cream to a table nearby, folded his hands and walked away. The the lights came back on, the music stopped, and everyone continued as if nothing had happened. Cary and I looked at eachother.

We looked around and didn’t see anything resembling the entrance to a national park. The bus didn’t slow, but we walked to the front anyway, thinking we might have to duck and roll to get off this thing. The bus slammed to a halt and the door opened. I looked outside and saw nothing more than open road.

"Where is the entrance?" I asked in Spanish.

The attendant pointed somewhere as the bus roared off. Cary’s pupils dilated to full moons as they darted around looking for anything at all. Finally we spotted the sign. Cotopaxi. Across the Pan-American Highway. We were going to have to run across six lanes of highway traffic to get there. We slung our jackets back on, grabbed our day packs and sprinted into the middle, where a police officer was "directing traffic". A few moments later we darted through a gap between trucks to get to the other side and enter the park.

It had been a hell of a morning.

We had woken later than expected, and had breakfast with Esteban and Isabella, a couple that had just arrived from Banos. They were making a very long vacation out of a work engagement that Esteban had in the area. A white-haired architect, he recently gave a conference for the locals regarding the design of hospitals in the area, and was working with Luis on a project to turn his farm into a countryside tourist retreat.

One of the things I love about hostel and haveli lodgings is the interaction with other travelers, learning from their experiences and taking in their advice. We spent longer than we had working out the details of our trip with Esteban and Isabella. Having just come from the south they had plenty of recommendations on where to stay in Banos and Cuenca, where to eat and what to do.

Our late start padded with friendly conversation, we left for our one and only destination of the day: Cotopaxi. Cotopaxi is the second-highest but assuredly the best volcano in Ecuador. Located right in the middle of the country, it towers almost 6000m above the earth and represents some of the finest climbing in the Andes. We walked out of the hotel thinking we were well-prepared for the trip, and found out just how wrong we were.

Transportation planning is the most difficult part of any trip. Figuring out when you need to go, how to get there, and communicating changes in plans to your driver are extremely difficult. We had let Luis and Esteban convince us that the easiest and cheapest way to Cotopaxi was by bus. Furthermore, they suggested, taking the city trolley to the bus was also quick and cheap. Cary and I nodded and said ‘Si’ thinking we had it all under control, and walked our spanglish-speaking asses right down to the Plaza Grande trolley station.

$0.50 later we were crammed into a standing room only trolley that made a Japanese subway car look roomy. Dressed for hiking the Andes, we spent 45 minutes sweating in the trolley before arriving at the bus station. Cary was showing signs of breaking in the heat, but we wandered around the bus terminal until we found the counter for tickets to Lasso. It wasn’t our destination, but Cotopaxi was on the way and we were told they would "drop us off". After wandering around a helpful bus attendant pulled us over to what was evidently our bus (though no markings indicated it). We sat, and after the bus was filled we took off. Things were improving. We were on the bus on our way to Cotopaxi. A little later than expected but on the way nonetheless.

Then shit started to get weird. We made several unexpected stops, picking up along the way additional passengers, food vendors, and a guy selling a DVD. Very loudly. Then we arrived at a toll booth, at which point the bus attendant rushed around trying to get all of the standing passengers in a seat, or at least pretending to sit. It turns out those extra passengers weren’t exactly regulation. Not too long afterwards we hit a traffic jam so bad that every car on the road was stopped, and food vendors were walking the five lanes trying to make a few sales. Ecuadorian drivers resemble Indians in that their total lack of patience for standing still requires them to drive on the other side of the road to get around other cars. Five lanes of traffic quickly turned into eight then nine, and oncoming traffic could not get by. Thus creating more traffic. Eventually we made our way through the chaos.

Only to have to sprint across the Pan-American into what we hoped was the entrance to Cotopaxi.

After reaching the other side, we discovered that the entrance to the park is a full 16km off the Pan-American, and the only way in is to drive your own car or get a guide to take you back. Obviously we had no car so we hired a reasonably priced guide. Minutes later a single cab Toyota truck pulled up, and our guide opened the passenger door. We peered inside and the stout, wrinkled Ecuadorian with nearly a full set of teeth waved back at us. The guide directed us with a wave of her hand to step into the truck. Cary and I stuffed ourselves into the cab next to the driver, Cary taking the middle seat next to the floor-board shift stick, with myself pressed so hard against the passenger door I literally fell out every time it was opened. Which had to be done from the outside since nobody in the cab could move enough to open it from the inside. Our guide hopped into the bed of the truck. which I presume was more comfortable.

It was the rainy season and all of Ecuador this side of the Andes felt perpetually overcast. As we made our way down the gravel path into the national park the bottom of the clouds fell out and a steady rain began to fall. I didn’t notice at first, but after about five minutes of rainfall it became impossible to see out of the truck. Our driver muttered something in Spanish and then reached for a pile of newsprint on the dash. He rolled up the old news, rolled down the window, and began to try and wipe as much of the moisture from the windshield as possible. The attempt was futile and the droplets were merely pushed around. The driver laughed and said something unintelligible in any language to us. Was he was trying to tell us that the wipers were broken? Cary and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

As we continued wiperless towards the volcano we made a few stops along the way. First to register; anyone entering the park must do so, and it costs $10 per person. Our guide’s fee covered it; hiring one just became even more reasonable. From there we headed to the visitor’s center, which held the typical visitor’s center fare; examples of flora and fauna, maps of the area, and information about the mountain including dates of eruption. Cotopaxi is still active, and it’s most recent major eruption in 1977 destroyed the nearby city of Latacunga.

Driving onward the rain began to worsen. Our driver had grown tired of his newspaper windshield wiper and took a new tack. At some point along the way he had filled an empty 2-liter coke bottle with water, and was stopping to pour on the windshield at regular intervals up the mountain trail. I’m still not sure what the point of this was, as it seemed to just add insult to injury, but if it helped the driver see in the rain so be it. I focused my attention on the stones and boulders strewn across the plain at the base of the volcano.

About halfway into the park we arrived at Limpiopungo lake. The lake is located at the base of Cotopaxi, and is home to many of the volcano’s birds. It’s also only a meter deep, making it more of a really big pond than a lake. Still, its an example of glacial melting producing bodies of water, and an important part of the park. We took in the sights then packed back into our ride. Our final stop was the hiking path to the top.

The road up the mountain began to get treacherous. The rain was slowly replaced with a driving snow as we rounded the switchbacks and hairpins up the slope of the volcano. The driver didn’t have any new inventions to deal with the increasing moisture, but the density of the clouds made seeing through the snow on the windshield irrelevant. The temperature outside began to seep into the cab of the tiny truck, and even being crammed together couldn’t prevent us from growing cold as we ascended.

Finally, we arrived at the last parking area before the climb to the top. We weren’t prepared to summit Cotopaxi as it requires the accoutrements of ice-climbing. To summit the volcano you must also leave in the middle of the night to make it up by dawn. We agreed that to go as far as the refuge, and that we’d make summit on the next trip. We hopped out of the old Toyota, pulled on our hats and hoods and started the slow, breathless hike up to 4800 meters.

“Luis, what do you call that plant?” I asked, pointing to one of the hundreds of Century plants dotting the countryside.

“That? Just ‘cactus’.”

“I can’t believe there are so many of them. They are a treasure in many American gardener’s collections.”

“Here, they are a nuisance.”

After a Jumbo breakfast we took a road trip to the north of Ecuador. Along the way to our first destination we stopped at one of the many equator lines. We would find that there is some dispute regarding the actual location of the equator, and the Quitsato organization had set up shop near Cayambe to make their point. Based on ancient ruins, a large circle with lines marking the crossing of the sun at both elliptic extremes, the exact center should mark the location of the equator, which is drawn boldly in stone across the floor of the site. Cary and I took the requisite feet-in-both-hemispheres picture before moving on to the hot springs.

Ecuador, with it’s volcanic activity is dotted with thermal hot springs. Along the road to Otavalo we paid a visit to a local hot spring. The springs are public, which made for a unique opportunity to rub elbows with the locals as they enjoy the thermal baths and accompanying cold pools. When I say baths, I mean that literally. The locals don’t just soak, they lather, rinse and repeat here as well. And when I say rub elbows, I mean that literally too. We had to wait a while for a few square inches to open up in the 8’ by 8’ tub for a soak. After about 30 minutes in the human soup we were ready to move on.

Quito, Guayaquil, and Cuenca house most of the citizens of Ecuador, the rest of the country is dominated by jungle, the Andes, or farmland. The latter made up the majority of the scenery on our journey through the North. Cows, goats, chickens and sheep roam the country side, and anything not cultivated by man is taken care of by nature. The Century plants, apparently a nuisance in Ecuador, grow anywhere they can find a foothold on the steep Andean , many of them featuring stalks over 25 feet.

Condor Park

Although Otavalo was our final destination, we had several stops in between. After the baths we drove up the road towards Condor Park just outside of the city. Condor Park is a reserve for raptors. The staff of the park takes in wounded birds from around the world, but especially in Ecuador, and nurtures them back to health. The park’s most prized birds are of course a pair of Andean Condors, but everything from Harpies to American Bald Eagles call the park home.

When we arrived a falconing demonstration had just begun, and a leather-gloved trainer walked out with a Gray-breasted Falcon perched on his arm. He gave the bird a command and it floated off into the distance, while he gave some information about the bird in Spanish. The bird was called back a few times before moving off out of sight. The trainer spent some time trying to call him back as a pair of wild birds descended towards his pet. One of the wild pair dove towards his falcon. Frightened, he flew safely back to his trainer’s outstretched arm in a hurry.

Cuy

“Are you ready for lunch?” Luis asked as we left Condor Park.

Luis was excited about lunch. The night before he mentioned we would be trying a Ecuadorian specialty. Cuy. Oh you don’t know what cuy is? Cuy is Guinea Pig.

There are as many opinions about how to cook Cuy as there are equators. Along the road we passed several cuy restaurants advertising the best roasted, braised, or grilled cuy, oftentimes in the form of a cute cartoon character. Like using a cartoon pig as the mascot of a barbeque joint. Luis took us to a town far North of Otavalo to make sure we had the best Cuy in Ecuador: Whole, deep fried. The guinea pig arrived at the table splayed spread-eagle on a bed of potatoes and mote, and we tore in. The skin was crispy and thick like pork. The meat tasted like gamey chicken. It was fantastic. The organs are included if you’re interested, but even Luis skipped snacking on the lungs or liver. I munched on the heart and the kidneys but left the rest. There may have been some cerveza involved. Satisfied, we left and headed on to Otavalo, but only after a surprise stop at the local ice cream store, which specialized in fresh avocado, tomate de arbol, and mango. The mango and tomate were great, but the avocado sealed the deal.

Otavalo

The largest city to the north of Quito is Otavalo, inhabited by the descendants of tribes that pre-date the Incan expansion. With their own culture, customs and religion, the Otavalenos and other nearby tribes create the country’s wool and alpaca textile works. We were lucky enough to be taking the trip to Otavalo on market day, when the weavers and yarn-workers would be showing off their wares.

When we arrived it was getting late in the day, and many stall owners were closing early to head off to Carnival celebrations. If even 50% of the market were closed it would still be too much to see in one day. The stalls are packed close together creating narrow hallways through the market, and the high stacks of textiles block your view from hall to hall. There isn’t any real organization, creating something more akin to a maze than a super market. Walking down one narrow path, you might reach a dead end. Down another you might find a round about with three new paths leading away, and one lucky stall owner running the center. All in all the market is a fantastic place to buy woolen goods; sweaters, hats, gloves, and socks all hand-knit from sheep or alpaca wool. You can also buy yourself one of the Otavalenos’ signature fedoras.

Cascada de Peguge

After leaving the market we had some daylight to burn so we went to hiked to the nearby Cascada de Peguche, a magnificent waterfall on a sacred site for the local people.

We were beginning to learn a lot about the Otavalenos on this trip into the north. 90% of Ecuadorians are catholic; the other 10% are a mix of tribal customs and nature worship. Referred to as being “without god” by the Catholics of the country, some of the tribes adhere to a religious creed that is in some ways secret. Luis, a resident of Quito didn’t know much about what their beliefs entailed, but could spot a prayer circle when he saw one as we passed by during the hike. A few moments later the same group sprinted by, shouting something down a steep path and across a bridge back into the mountain forest. Later we would hear that several of the Otavalenos in the forest that night were using a drug, probably produced locally, as was their custom.

“They are hard workers, but on the weekends they are wild.” Luis told us.

“Work hard, play harder?” We asked.

“Yes, that’s exactly right.”

Luis appeared to have a great respect for the Otavalenos, guiding us through the market and conversing with the locals. Many of the tribes are closed off about in regards to their tribal customs; Luis told us that the Otavalenos are “too kind”.

Despite the all of activity the park was peaceful and relaxing. The smell of Eucalyptus pervaded the path up to the waterfall, to the lookouts and eventually behind it. There are a dozen paths leading to different areas; one requires you to climb up a vertical cliff to reach the mouth of the waterfall itself, which you have to jump over to reach the other side. It’s a breath taking experience to be at the top looking into the source of such a magnificent cascade. We carefully climbed back down and around the collection pools and the rest of the mountain park before beginning our journey back to Quito.

It was dark as we left. Without the landscape to keep our eyes busy Luis exercised our minds with Spanish lessons. We could speak a little when we arrived, and Luis would be kicking us out of the nest for the first time on our own tomorrow as we made our way to our next destination by bus; He wanted to make sure we knew enough Spanish to get ourselves there and back. We expanded beyond the simple “What is the bus number and platform?” to more conversational topics. Music, movies, travel, etc. Luis drilled us the entire way home before dropping us off at the Vista Hermosa for dinner. We dined on a balcony overlooking the city before turning in for the night. We had an early morning coming again as we tackled our most daunting obstacle on the trip:

Feb. 17th 2012

I popped out of bed starving and ready to get some food in me. Cary rolled out wondering what the hell was wrong with her. We made our way downstairs and as we had breakfast the effects of altitude sickness took hold of Cary. After politely excusing herself from the table, Cary rushed back upstairs to eject what little she had already eaten. She allowed me to eat the rest of her meal, which in addition to 3 cups of Luis’ fabulous coffee, made me all right with the world. Cary demanded a ‘pharmacia’ to get some ‘ibuprofeno’ for her headache, so we hobbled on down to the local drug store for provisions before moving on toward the attractions of Old Town Quito.

The Churches

We made our way first to the Plaza Grande as Luis had suggested. When we arrived the Iglesia de San Agustin had just opened, so we paid the nominal fee and went inside. The church grounds feature the room where the declaration of the independence of Quito was signed and a small museum featuring local Catholic artwork, much of it dating from the 17th and 18th century. Of special note is the wooden remains of the figure that used to adorn the dome. Sorry folks, few pictures here as ‘photografia es prohibitada’ in the churches.

We left San Agustin and headed for another church, El Sagrario, situated on the South end of Plaza Grande just past Quito’s Cathedral. The sanctuary of Agustin and Sagrario are very similar, though Sagraria is much larger. The Sagrario is more richly adorned than Agustin, and feels more active in terms of parishioners.

Exiting the Sagrario we found ourselves directly across from the Ciudad Municipal. It looked surprisingly modern inside, so we stepped in to check it out. We found ourselves immersed in the modern day educational lives of young Ecuadorians. In the central hall there is a library of books translated into Spanish, rebound from earlier editions, on subjects ranging from Physics to Computer Science. We wandered around for a while viewing various art galleries and verandas, before exiting.

As we stepped out onto the street a parade of Carnival celebrators was passing by. A small marching band accompanied by dancing residents dressed in traditional garb, the parade marched on carrying the banner of their troop. The celebrators ran around spraying a colored soap, which is a bit like silly string, on spectators. Cary and I were gawking and naturally made easy targets. I was blasted furiously but it was all in jest. After the parade had marched away Cary perused the fabric and yarns marts nearby. We wandered the streets for a few more hours, down the main stretch of the Ave Agostos de 24th.

Cary had finally acclimated to the altitude and the light breakfast had caught up to her, so we went in search of some lunch. We made our way to La Ronda, a rejuvenated area of town filled with restaurants and art galleries. We stepped into one of the nearby restaurants and had a traditional lunch. I ordered a fritada, fried pork chunks. It’s a bit like carnitas in an American Mexican restaurant, served with mote and toasted corn. Mote is a boiled white corn, each kernel about the size of a thumb. The toasted corn tastes a bit like corn nuts. Together they make for a unique side dish. We split a Pilsener, the local beer, and headed out for the Panecillo.

The Panecillo

The Panecillo is a hill in the middle of Quito, that divides the city into Northern and Southern halves. It features a statue of the Madonna trouncing a chained dragon. It offers a fantastic view of the entire city, especially if you climb the stairs inside the statue and walk out onto the veranda. The name Panecillo means “little piece of bread”, reflected by the round shape of the hill.

We made two attempts to reach the Panecillo. Our city map pointed us in a direction that took us around the hill before ascending a side street and up a few switchbacks. On our way a local stopped his car, rolled down the window, and politely cautioned us to be careful up ahead; their were thieves about. We thanked him and promptly turned around. The map showed a few ways to get their so we decided another way might be best. Cary suggested we just get a cab but I refused. I wanted to walk the hill.

We met a similar fate on our second attempt. Near the base of a hill is a long stair case, which seemed to be the most direct route up the little piece of bread right to the top. We began to ascend (much to Cary’s chagrin), before being stopped by a group who informed us that unless we were traveling with a larger crowd, this wasn’t the safest way to go. We turned around and walked with them back to the base of the hill, passing a very obvious sign indication to gringos that the way was not safe. It stated bluntly

Caution Tourists

Robery Zone

Do Not walk

This Street

Danger

I shrugged while Cary scolded me for being so reckless.

Finally, near the base, we flagged a cab and paid the $3 for a ride to the top. We took in the view, climbed the statue, and descended the little piece of bread safely in our cab.

The Basilica

Daylight was in short supply so we took off for our last destination for the day, the basilica. We had saved it for last because we were told you can climb all the way to the top of the tower for a fantastic view of the city. We figured we ought to spend some time walking around the city and acclimating to the altitude before climbing higher.

The Basilica del Voto Nacional was commissioned in the late 1800’s and like the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. remains unfinished to this day. Wikipedia says that locals believe the world will end when the church is completed, but none of them mentioned it to us. Finished or not, it is the most beautiful sight in the city.

The caretakers of the Basilica were clearly going through their end of day rounds, but we had a little more than an hour before they closed, so we made our way around climbing various belfries and towers, and taking in the city from the top. The climbs, up ladders made of rebar with “mesh reinforcement” couldn’t possibly pass inspection in America, but oh well, “When In Rome”. Braving the clearly unsafe ascents was well worth it however, a the vistas of the city were better here than at the Panecillo.

After climbing we made our way to ground level and into the sanctuary itself. The enormous sanctuary was completely unlit, and I imagined this is what most medieval churches must have felt like. To round out the unfinished look, the once colored panes in the stained-glass panels have been replaced with clear glass. We roamed around as the last visitors inside, peeked inside the much small inner sanctuary (which is off limits to tourists), before an attendant let us out onto the streets again. This is the only church we visited that allowed photography inside.

The day had come to a close so we cleaned up, grabbed a quick dinner at a restaurant near Jumbo, and took a cab to the New City. We stepped into the Ghoz Bar, a Swiss-owned 80’s themed bar. We grabbed a few more Pilseners, played a round of foosball and billiards, then caught a cab back to Jumbo. Tomorrow we would rise early for a trip to Otovalo and the northern side of the country with Luis.

Feb 16th 2012

"We’re coming in kinda hot, aren’t we?"

"Uhh, yeah"

The little display embedded in the seat in front of me indicated Time remaining to destination: 25 min. I glanced up seconds later and it read 19. Moments prior the captain had indicated that we shouldn’t be concerned with the woman lying in the aisle, and that she was well taken care of. He kindly asked that we stay seated while they rush her off the plane after we land. He didn’t mention we’d be landing almost an hour ahead of schedule.

"The way Quito is situated at altitude, in the valley, they have to be very careful when they land"

Our neighbor on the plane, a native of Quito had struck up a conversation to take our minds off of the dicey landing we were about to make. He picked a brilliant ice-breaker. We moved on quickly to topics ranging from work-life balance and former jobs, but mostly he focused on recommendations for things to see in Ecuador. We were grateful for the suggestions and the conversation, and hardly noticed as the plane dove from cruising altitude and roughly touched down. It raced down the runway in the rain much longer that it should have, and when we came to a complete stop, the cabin erupted with applause.

On our way out of the plane, a passenger asked the obviously harried pilot how much runway he had left. 3000 feet. We would later find out that we almost landed in Panama instead of Quito, Ecuador to get the woman in the aisle off the plane. Luckily the passenger in front of her was a doctor, and took good care of her while we sped towards our real destination. We got off the plane and headed for the taxi stands, unsure of whether or not our hearts were beating too quickly from the altitude or the landing.

A ten minute taxi ride later and we were at our Hotel. It would be a mistake to call it a hotel of course, we weren’t staying at the Marriot. Cary found a place called Jumbo Lodging, a highly rated bed and breakfast style lodging in Quito’s Old Town. Despite its name, Jumbo has four rooms, a kitchen and a common area, which is very similar to the havelis we stayed in while touring India. The rooms are brightly painted, open to the street below, and feature few unnecessary adornments. There isn’t a TV in the place (though wifi is available). Luis runs Jumbo with his wife and daughter, and is an extremely knowledgeable native of Quito with an endless supply of suggestions. This next part is very important. Luis makes the best cup of coffee I have ever had in a hotel anywhere. It turns out that he has his own coffee and chocolate bean farm, which is the source of his fantastic brew. With any luck I can talk him into selling me a batch of green beans to roast at home before we leave.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before we could experience the coffee we would need to sleep. And sleep we did. Tomorrow would be our first day in Ecuador.

Back when I documented the repair of the Casio PG-380 MIDI Guitar, I had no idea that this post was going to dominate the traffic patterns to my little home on the web. Fully 1/3 of all visitors to this site come to that post, asking questions, posting comments, and requesting repairs. One request I’ve gotten over and over is a repair on the Casio MG-510.

The Casio MG-510 is like the little brother of the Casio PG-380. The base functionality is similar, but the 510 lacks some of the extra features that the PG-380 offers. The 510 has no space for an expansion slot, and no internal synthesizer, which for most software synth users is just fine. The biggest differences you’ll notice between the 380 and the 510 are hammer on sensing and the ability to perform pitch bends. The 510 is strictly chromatic; when you bend it assumes the same pitch until you bend far enough to change notes, in which case a note off and note on message are sent and interpreted. The 380 will perform a pitch bend at even the slightest pull of the string.

The 510 and 380 share one major flaw though: the electrolytic capacitors used for the pitch envelopes. These heinous little surface mount caps tend to leak over the years, especially on the 510, leading to corrosion and in most cases total failure of the MIDI capabilities in the guitar.

I finally got around to repairing one of these guitars, and the process is so similar to the PG-380 that it would be a shame not to document it. If you’re new to this you should probably refer to the post on the PG-380 before getting started.

You will need:

6 x 1 uF non-polarized electrolytic capacitors

4 x 10 uF polarized electrolytic capacitors

1 x 22 uF polarized electrolytic capacitor

1 x 4.7 uF polarized electrolytic capacitor

1 x 33 uF polarized electrolytic capacitors

Anything you need to unsolder old capacitors and solder on new ones

First, crack open the back and take a look at the boards:

You’ll see two double-stacked and plugged into three header cables.

Take both boards out (unlike the PG-380 you have to operate on both):

Take a look at the capacitors on both boards below:

Top of PCB 1 – C9, C18, C33: 1uF non-polarized electrolytic

Bottom of PCB 1 C42, C52, C63: 1uF non-polarized electrolytic

Top of PCB 2

C4, C22, C29, C12: 10 uF polarized electrolytic

C30: 22 uF polarized electrolytic

C31: 4.7 uF polarized electrolytic

C48: 33 uF polarized electrolytic

Basically, for both boards, replace the capacitors with the caps above using capacitors of identical value. It shouldn’t matter if you use polarized caps for the entire repair, since the frequencies are not high enough to affect response times, but use non-polarized where needed above if possible.

You will find that you have 2 "extra" caps (seems like 2 for each string plus 2). I know that one capacitor is used for CPU reset (C30), but I’m not entirely sure what the last one is for. I replaced it anyway.

Some notes:

The traces on the top board are very small. You might find yourself pulling them while unsoldering the old caps. Not to worry, there are plenty of places to solder the new caps.

Corrosion makes for crappy contacts. If you find that your caps have corroded, particularly on the lower board, you will need to sand the corrosion down with steel wool or other light abrasive until you can expose some copper to solder to. On the guitar I repaired the corrosion was severe, and I spent a lot of time scraping out leaky capacitor guts.

That’s really all there is to it. Plug the boards back into their headers, screw them back into the guitar, and adjust the trim pots as needed to calibrate the guitar again.

Several years ago I began acoustically treating my studio for recording drums and mixing. I did some research and pricing; it didn’t take a spreadsheet to discover that acoustic paneling was both overpriced and hideous. I searched some more and devised a solution that was both economical and classy.

Acoustic paneling is simple stuff. You get some kind of absorbent material, optionally covered with sonically neutral fabric, and hang it on a surface. You can use spacers to increase the gap between the wall and the panel to increase the amount of absorbency, and of course your choice in material will affect the frequency range, amount of reduction, and all that. Let’s skip the science though and get right into the implementation.

You will need:

An Absorbent Material

1″ x 3″ boards

1″ x 2″ boards

Fabric (see below)

Nail or screw gun

Stapler

Dry wall fasteners (wing nut style)

First, select an absorbent material. You could go simple and use the pink stuff. You know, the insulation they sell at Home Depot with the panther on it. Good ‘ol R-30. This material is fine and all, but from the perspective of space it is far from ideal. It’s bulky, and in a space as confined as mine I wanted something that wasn’t going to shrink my studio by more than a few square feet. I went with Owens-Corning 703 but you’ve got some other options, like Roxul RHT 80, which is much cheaper.

The material I bought comes in 24″ x 48″ x 2″ by default, but can be cut smaller using a razor blade. Wear gloves and long sleeves if you decide to cut it, unless you like that itchy feeling. I went the lazy route and planned my room sans cutting.

The next step was to build a frame to contain the panel. Sure, you could just duct tape it to the wall, but a frame gives it a cleaner look and allows you to space the panel away from the wall. The frame also gives you something to attach the fabric to. I used 1″ x 3″ cedar boards because they’re extremely light and inexpensive, and the panels fit perfectly in them. No need to get fancy with dovetail joints and wood glue, just cut some straight boards and join them together with a nail gun, stapler, screws, or whatever you have laying around. You’re dog might casually sniff your frame:

After your frame is built, you’ll want to attach your fabric. You have a lot of freedom here to dress these panels up, so long as you choose a fabric that will allow most or all sound through. Many tight weave fabrics will reflect frequencies preventing them from even reaching your absorbent material, which kind of defeats the purpose. I went with coffee sacks since I had a ready supply of them, they’re sonically neutral, and I think they look cool. Your dog might question your selection:

Using a staple gun or a fastener of some kind, stretch the fabric across the front of the frame and staple each side. You’re probably not going to learn to be an upholsterer here, but try to get a drum-tight frame across the front of the panel, leaving the back open. After you’ve stapled the fabric around the frame, stuff the panel into the it. Eventually your dog will get tired of whatever it is you’re doing an leave.

Your panel should look something like this:

And it probably looks something like this from the front:

Technically you could build a stand or mount of some kind and move this around wherever you wanted, but I opted to hang mine from the walls (and ceiling). I used 1″ x 2″ boards to hang all of my panels. A 1″ x 2″ attached flat to the wall provides a 3/4″ standoff between the wall and your panel when you hang it. First, I cut 2 1″ x 2″ boards just long enough to fit inside the back of my frames. Then, I drilled two holes and inserted a bolt appropriately sized for these wing nuts:

From there it is a simple matter of hanging the standoff wherever you want your panels to hang. Mark your holes on the wall, drill where the marks are, press the bolts (already attached to the 1″ x 2″), then tighten:

Take your panel and hang it on the 1″ x 2″. You can attach, with screws or nails, the panel to the 1″ x 2″, but I find it unnecessary. Plus if you leave them free hanging you can move them around if you get bored with the way they look.

That’s pretty much it. I realized that this wasn’t particularly novel when I realized that this guy did almost the same thing independently, but I think the coffee sacks were a nice touch.

Exhausted, sore, and half-asleep, I stare into the read-view mirror of our van. While I wait for Jeremy to appear on the horizon behind me, I strike up a conversation with a much younger version of myself.

“We enjoy this?”

“Hell yes!”

The young me grins from ear to ear, gripping a roll of quarters at an all-night arcade lockin. A bearded, haggard, and much older me smiles back before I run off into a maze of video game consoles. Probably to play Tekken.

Jeremy’s head pops up over the ridge, and I’m back in the van. I rub my eyes and hop out into the dewy morning grass, stomping around to warm up. Jeremy is moving slow. Part of me wants to urge him on rather than take his place, but he’s already picked up almost six miles of the eight mile run, he needs a break. In a few minutes, a slap bracelet wraps around my wrist and I’m off again; the two mile run ahead of me will be the shortest and most difficult.

A year ago, I ran the Southern Odyssey, my first 24+ hour relay race with a group of friends from High School. It was a tiresome saga full of ups and downs, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. When John sent out the APB to get the team back together I was all in. We paid our way into the race and had what looked to be a full team. We all looked forward to a milder, less intense Southern Odyssey in 2011.

A year later as I hobbled down a country road toward my next pit stop, I recalled how we still managed to end up with eight runners. There were dropouts related to injuries just weeks before the race. John, initially the organizer of the team, had moved to Malibu several months prior and couldn’t make the trip out to Atlanta to join the team. Then we had injuries along the way. Drew, one of our strongest runners, struggled to get by with a taped up calf. Aaron, himself a sub for a runner we lost to injuries before the race, was run off the road during his third leg. He rolled his ankle so badly it looked like a grapefruit was growing from his leg. We divided up the extra mileage and persisted.

As I rounded a curve on what seemed to be a neverending hill, I heard a long low note. The vuvuzela.

Jeremy, perhaps the most upbeat person I’ve ever met, had brought a host of toys along for the ride. One was a vuvuzela. By the end of the race this $.60 plastic horn would become the sound of mercy on the horizon for our team as we approached a pit stop. You can hear it bellow a half mile away, and the sound means one thing. You’re getting close.

The vuvuzela urged me on. I woke from whatever half-dream state I was in and found new energy to continue. It was a reminder that weariness and exhaustion can easily be overcome with the right stimulation. In my case, the sound of a $.60 plastic horn.

And so it was another Southern Odyssey. Many of the trials and tribulations are the same from year to year, but to truly understand you must experience it yourself. I always come away from it feeling deeply satisfied. Perhaps its the binge eating afterwards. Whatever the case, I can offer this advice:

Buy a vuvuzela. Buy six of them and leave them around the house. Leave one in your car. Leave one in the bathroom. Take it to your kid’s basketball game. Take it to your next board meeting. Use it to annouce the birth of your daughter to the rest of the maternity ward. No matter what the occasion, the vuvuzela is the most appropriate way to celebrate it.